"Then come on," whispered Langridge. "I guess it's safe now. There don't appear to be any one stirring." The mysterious body of freshmen moved off in the darkness toward the Booker Memorial Chapel. Their object, as you have probably guessed, was to climb to the steeple and remove the clapper from the bell, a prank that was sanctioned by years of custom at Randall College. Once the big tongue of iron was secured, it would be taken to a village jeweler, who would have it melted up and cast into scores of miniature clappers. These, when nickel-plated, made appropriate watch charms for the freshmen class, and suitably, they thought, demonstrated their superiority over their long-time rivals, the sophomores. For it was the duty of the second-year students, if possible, to prevent the taking away of the clapper. The purloining of it must always be done the first week after the Easter vacation, and if this passed by without the freshmen being successful, the clapper was safe, immune and inviolate. Hence the need of haste, as but two more nights were left. Once the clapper was taken the class had to contribute money enough to buy another for the voiceless bell. Silently, as befitted the occasion, the lads made their way from the rendezvous at the boathouse toward the chapel. Their plan was simple. On top of the cupola which held the bell was a large cross. It was the custom to tie a stone, or some weight, to a light cord, throw the weight over the cross, and by means of the thin string haul up a heavy rope. Up this rope some freshman would climb, remove the clapper, and slide down again, while his comrades stood guard against any attack of sophomores. "Who's going to throw the stone?" asked Ed Kerr, as he walked along beside Langridge. "I am, of course." "Oh, of course," repeated Clinton in a low voice. "You want to run everything." "Well, Fred Langridge is a good pitcher," spoke Sid Henderson. "He's likely to make the 'varsity this year." "Um!" was all Phil said. The boys reached the chapel, and, under the direction of Langridge, the cord and rope were made ready. "Got a good stone?" asked the leader. "Here's a hunk of lead," replied Ed. "I made it on purpose. It's not so likely to slip out as a stone." "That's good. Hand it over." The lead was soon fastened to the cord. "Look out, now, here goes!" called Langridge. "I'm going to pitch it over. Be all ready, Snail." He stepped back, and tossed the lead, intending to make the cord fall across one arm of the cross. But either his aim was poor, or he could not discern well enough in the darkness the outlines of the cross. "Missed it!" exclaimed Clinton. "Well, so would you," growled Langridge. "Some one stepped on the cord." "Let Snail try," suggested Henderson. "I'm doing this throwing," declared Langridge curtly. "It doesn't look so," murmured Phil. Langridge tried again, but with no success. "Hurry," spoke Kerr. "The sophs will be out soon."